02MAY3025
So, fun fact about me—I used to be afraid of the dark.
Not in the normal way, like some kid scared of monsters under the bed. No, my version of it was way worse. Growing up on a station, I got stuck in an air duct for six hours after a power failure. No emergency lights, no comms, just me, my bad decisions, and total, suffocating darkness.
Why am I telling you this?
Because I’m currently floating in a dead ship graveyard, with every external light failing one by one, and some thing is still out there watching me.
And wouldn’t you know it? That childhood fear? Turns out, it never really left.
Survival Rule #1: Ignore the Impossible
Here’s a quick recap for anyone not keeping up with my steady descent into existential terror:
I blindly jumped into a ship graveyard to escape whatever was haunting me in the last system.
The wrecks here are empty—no bodies, no distress calls, just a bunch of abandoned ships floating in the dark.
I started picking up strange lights moving among the wrecks, blinking in a pattern I definitely didn’t like.
The comms told me I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Now, lesser men might take this as a sign to leave immediately.
I, however, am not a lesser man. I am a dumb man.
Which is why instead of leaving, I decided to scan the nearest shipwreck.
Because hey—maybe there’s salvage.
And maybe if I pretend I’m not being actively haunted, the horror won’t be real.
Survival Rule #2: Don’t Open Doors in a Ship Graveyard
So there I was, docking with what used to be a heavy freighter, its hull pockmarked with weapons fire and deep, jagged gashes that I don’t like thinking about too hard. The log beacon said it was from Thorne’s Drift, a system that should not be anywhere near here.
That was red flag number one.
I went inside anyway.
The ship was dead silent. Atmosphere intact, but the emergency lights flickered like something straight out of a bad horror holo. I found personal belongings scattered around—bags, tools, even a half-eaten meal sitting in the mess like someone just stood up and left.
No bodies. No signs of violence.
Just emptiness.
That was red flag number two.
Then I found the writing.
It covered the walls—scratched into the metal, sometimes smeared in something dark and long since dried. I didn’t recognize the language, but some of it was in Standard.
"DON’T LISTEN."
"IT KNOWS YOUR NAME."
"DO NOT OPEN THE AIRLOCK."
Now, I’d love to tell you that at this point, I turned around and left.
But no. No, I did not.
Instead, I did exactly what the wall said NOT to do.
I opened the airlock.
Survival Rule #3: If It Smiles at You, Run
Now, in my defense, I didn’t open the outer airlock. I just opened the door to the cargo hold—which, in hindsight, was still an awful choice.
The second I did, my suit comm crackled with static.
Not the random, broken kind. The intentional kind.
Then, just under the static, I heard something… laughing.
And standing right there, in the center of the hold, was a figure.
Human shape, but too tall. Arms and legs too long. Face—
Wrong.
It didn’t move. Didn’t react. It just stood there, smiling. Too wide. Too knowing.
And that’s when I finally made the right decision.
I turned and ran like hell.
Now, I’d like to say I made it back to my ship cleanly. That I hit the airlock seal, powered up my thrusters, and got the hell out without issue.
But no.
Because the last thing I heard before my suit comm cut out completely was that same, awful voice saying:
“See you soon, pilot.”
I don’t know what I just let out of that ship.
I don’t want to know.
All I know is that I am leaving this place immediately, and I am never coming back.
Scootch
Quote of the Day:
"If you find writing on the walls telling you not to do something, maybe listen to it."
